


Slaughter In Suburbia

by abovetheserpentine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Disturbia AU, I Tried, M/M, Sexual Tension, Violence, i don't know what i was thinking, slight conflict of interests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months of house arrest seems like a long time. And it is, until Stiles begins spying on his neighbour - the incredibly attractive and frustrating Derek Hale, whose recent move next door coincides with the beginning of a series of suspicious disappearances. Now, three months doesn't seem like nearly enough time for Stiles to unveil the truth behind the increased crime rate of Beacon Hills; he's living next door to a serial killer, who he's also kind of crushing on. The question is, when the truth comes out, will anyone believe him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Month

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me when I was working my job at the video store and decided to put Disturbia on. This is my first time writing Teen Wolf, and also slash. Nerve-wracking, I know! At least I tried.

His mom dies on an unusually warm day in October. Later, Stiles will wonder whether her death was the price of the warm weather he'd been dreaming of since the end of summer, or whether it was one of those tragic coincidences that stand out on such morbid days. By the time he's back in school after the funeral, he's chosen to forget the weather's importance of a month ago and instead hides within his hoodie, dreading the days when the bright sun will make such grief impossible. 

Stiles hovers once he's back in session; floating between classes that are nothing but dry facts, scratching pens and crinkled paper, and muttering hesitant responses to concerned friends. His enthusiasm for learning hasn't gone but lays dormant, ready for the days when he desires distraction in the form of higher grades, seeking perfection in the one aspect of his life that didn't change with the loss of his mother. 

Scott doesn't talk to him much, which is just what he needs. Stiles doesn't think he'd be able to say anything, even if Scott asked him to. What can he say? His mother is dead and if he doesn't do something about it, his father will soon follow. Stiles can't speak, for fear of the truth he's so long denied hitting him in the face. His teachers tread around him carefully, hoping they won't expose his gaping wound - no where near close to healing - more than he already has himself. They do not call upon him, and he does not offer up any answers. He sits, attempting to forget his dad's dwindling liquor cabinet and the smell of his mom's Saturday blueberry pancakes. 

"Mr. Stilinski,"

What he sees out the window doesn't surprise him; another cool, overcast day to match his somber mood. Stiles doesn't know why he expects anything else; winter is on the horizon, ready to welcome him into its comforting embrace of jeans, sweatshirts and parkas.

_"Mr. Stilinski,"_

He rubs his face, tired, exhausted, can't wait to get into bed and think about nothing-

" _Stiles!_ " Scott whispers, jerking him out of his thoughts and back into the world of the living, where there are no Saturday blueberry pancakes and Stiles feels considerably emptier. 

"Mr. Stilinski," Harris seethes, and Stiles can sense the impatience in him, knows he's about to do something he'll probably regret but cannot muster up enough energy to care, "I asked you a question."

The class is silent, and Stiles looks up from his desk, face as blank as it's been since he started senior year. He sees Scott out of the corner of his eye, who's wringing his hands and restlessly jiggling his leg. He's nervous. Stiles can't fathom why - he doesn't feel much else but grief, despite his attempts.

Harris's face is unimpressed, mouth formed into a thin line, pursed with disappointment. He doesn't repeat the question, and Stiles doesn't ask.

"Uhh… the limit does not exist?"

His peers laugh, and he can see Scott unable to contain a small smile. Maybe things will be better, if he can still inspire laughter.

"Perhaps you have forgotten, _Mr. Stilinski_ , that we are, in fact, in Chemistry, not Mathematics." Harris walks up to his desk, about three feet away which is a little closer than Stiles would have preferred. Then again, _twenty_ feet is a little close for Stiles. He's never liked Harris; always wanted to talk back, always wanted to have his fist meet Harris's face.

His Chemistry teacher is unamused by his attempts at humour, and his continued silence doesn't help matters.

"You know, Stiles," Stiles twitches, unused to his favoured nickname coming from the lips of one of the few people he hates, "Losing a parent is hard. I understand."

Stiles looks up from his clean desk, untouched by vandalism despite what must be thousands of students over the years to bore of Chemistry.

"But your mom," Stiles's hands form fists, and his jaw clenches, "She wouldn't have wanted this for you."

At 2:26pm on Friday, November 23rd, 2011, Stiles punches his Chemistry teacher in the face.

~~~

"You're lucky I'm the Sheriff, Stiles!" His dad shouts, slamming the door behind them. The house is messy, warm and lived in - _but only by two people_ , Stiles reminds himself. He walks in, hoodie covering his face, dumps his bag by the couch in the living room and goes to what will mostly like be an empty fridge and- yes, it's empty save for some butter and a week old serving of vegetable soup he'd made in the hope of getting his father eating like he used to. He can't see his dad on the other side of the fridge door, but he can imagine his frustrated expression and the never-ending disappointment in his eyes solely for his son. 

" _Look_ at me, Stiles!" the Sheriff's voice is strained, emotional, and that's what makes Stiles sigh and close the refrigerator to face his dad, spreading his arms open and raising his eyebrows.

"What?" Stiles's arms fall back by his sides, the sound itself sounding exasperated, tired and grieving. "What do you want me to say, Dad?" His question echoes around the kitchen as he rips off his hood, "What _can_ I say?!"

The silence is thick, his dad's breaths are heavy, and Stiles looks away, threading his hands into his hair, hair he hasn't even thought to shave since before his mom died.

After a few moments his dad takes a deep breath, posture visibly deflating and eyes somewhat glassier.

"Tell me what to do, Stiles. I don't know what to do anymore. First the ditching class, then the attempted theft, and now _this_." Stiles avoids his dad's eyes, suddenly shameful of the acts he once thought were necessary, to cause trouble to those who hadn't yet had the misfortune of any. "You attacked a teacher, Stiles." John sounds defeated. He sits down at the kitchen table, scratched and dented from years of loving use. "To be honest, I don't know whether three months house arrest is going to do you much good."

Stiles watches his dad and tries not to lash out. His heart is beating a mile a minute, and he can't seem to slow it down. His breaths are ragged, sharp and painful, and he knows now that he's on the verge of a panic attack, his eyes prickling with unshed tears. Frustration wells up within him, at both himself and his father. His dad is hurting, too. Not only did he lose his wife that day, but he also lost his son; a teenager who used to come home from school babbling like a seven year old on a sugar kick, smiling and laughing and happy to help. Now he's left with a seventeen year old delinquent who curses and breaks the law and is nothing like the son whom he loved so much. But also his dad, Stiles's dad… he could have done something. He could have reached out to Stiles when those petty crimes were simply a cry for help, but he chose what was in the cabinet above the stove, and decided to have heart-to-hearts with that instead.

"You've got roughly six months until your sentence starts. Best to have you inside all day, every day during the summer; that way you can finish up senior year - let's hope on a good note - and start college on time."

Stiles nods, refrains from telling his dad he won't be going to college and disappointing the one person in his life that he strives to please, even further.

He turns to leave, to grab his bag and go upstairs, to ignore his homework until he passes out on his bed from exhaustion, when his dad speaks, stopping him in his tracks.

"Don't do this again, Stiles," John's voice is so low Stiles almost doesn't hear it, "Next time, I don't think they'll be so lenient."

He nods again before he turns once more to go to his room, the heavy weight of expectation on his shoulders.

~~~

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

Stiles thought three months house arrest would be easier. Sure, he has a device around his ankle that beeps and notifies the cops of his position if he walks further than 100 feet from the center of the house, which kind of puts a damper on things. But he figured he'd have an excuse to stay inside, watch all his favourite movies and television shows, play video games, and eat junk food. He wouldn't be forced to be the third wheel to friends Scott and Allison, and he would have a reason for his non-existent tan upon return to school (or, this year, his introduction to all these colleges he's supposedly applying to).

Three months house arrest is not easy. It's not easy when, after the first week, his dad suspends his XBox account, almost confiscates his iPod - but Stiles convinces him to freeze the iTunes store on his computer instead - and refuses to let him sit around watching mindless reality shows all day. It's not Stiles's fault he got hooked on _Toddlers & Tiaras_, alright? That show is morbidly fascinating, and _perfectly_ educational because, if anything, it's taught him that when _he_ has kids, they are _not_ participating in any sort of pageant. Ever. Instead, his dad makes him do chores (which, let's be honest, Stiles did most of them anyway, but was putting them off for some Honey Boo-Boo Child time), talk to someone other than Scott at least once every two days, and write up some _seriously_ late college 'applications' (instead of which Stiles has his ninth grade paper on osmosis open on his laptop and pretends to add to it whenever his dad walks past). 

It's also not easy when his friends come over and make him the third wheel anyway. Stiles has seen enough of Scott's tongue to last a lifetime, and then some. He really wishes that instead of him, Scott was the one who lived next to Allison. Maybe then his house wouldn't be the pre-assigned meeting place for all their group hang-outs, and then if Scott and Allison decided to get down and dirty he would be able to leave instead of being stuck in his own room, no respite for at least a hundred miles in any direction. Stiles almost sees them as one entity these days, forever attached and forever in love. He likes to call them Scallison in his head, but he'd never say it out loud or Scott might do that stupid pout he thinks is cute and Allison might kiss it right off his face. He now understands why they never hang out at Allison's house. Her parents would see her and Scott all over each other, and that'd be Scallison being _subtle_. Sometimes Stiles finds their secret romance kind of adorable, but other times not so much. Other times being 90% of the time but, y'know, best friend and all he has to endure.

Speaking of which.

"Hey, hey, hey! Cut that out! Eugh, you'd think you'd need to breathe, but apparently not!" Stiles turns his back on the couple making out by the window and decides to try his hand, once again, at constructing a huge house of cards. Just a few more and he's there, and he can post a picture to Facebook and Scott can like it when he gets home. Just one mor-

"Hey, dude."

The house, leaning tower, whatever it was, collapses right in front of him and Stiles is frozen, mourning the one thing keeping him from seeing Scott's tonsils for about the seventh time.

"Seriously, Scott? _Seriously?_ Did you not see how close I was?" Stiles asks, sarcasm ready and rearing to go. He looks over at his best friend, still tangled up in his girlfriend, who shrugs stupidly.

"Okay, I'll bite, what?" Stiles sighs, getting up from his position on the floor to look out the rather dirty window Scott is pointing through.

"Looks like you got a new neighbour."

Scallison retreats from the window and Stiles wipes it clean and takes a look, one of Scallison's heads hovering over his shoulder (it has long, wavy hair and unless Scott is a lot more caveman than he was five seconds ago, Stiles presumes it's Allison's).

"Ooh, he's cute." She coos, and he can't really blame her despite Scott's protests that follow because damn, the guy is cute in that sort of _I'll-eat-your-babies-but-you'll-like-it_ way. He's lifting what seems to be a total of ten boxes one by one from the moving truck into his house, and the hired removalists seem very confused because sure, yeah, the guy is buff as all hell, but he's picking up furniture - that two normal-sized guys would struggle with - like it's made of foam.

There's a sleek, black Camaro parked in the driveway of the, what seems to be newly-bought, house - a stark contrast to the derelict state the home is in.

"I wonder why someone would buy that house now?" Allison inquires. She seems to have detached herself from Scott to get a better look.

"What do you mean?" Scott asks, as clueless as always. Allison looks back at him, her _'I don't know everything, but I know most things'_ face being used in full force.

"Well, that house has been abandoned at least since I moved here in junior year. I heard it was the Hale residence until it burned down… what? Nearly ten years ago, now?" She looks to Stiles, because she knows he's lived here longer and even then, he wouldn't be able to sleep at night until he knew the history of the creepy house next door.

"Eight years. Eight years ago last week, actually." Stiles is still looking at the dark-haired man, broad and muscular with a wide face, piercing blue eyes he can see even from his dusty window, and what looks to be a neat stubble. Stiles can appreciate. Stiles can _definitely_ appreciate. 

"Unless it wasn't bought," Scott states, a rare moment of brilliance since he met Allison and his brain became a puddle of feelings. They both look to him expectantly, "Maybe it was inherited."

He and Allison both look at each other before turning back to look out the window. If the house has been inherited, then there's only one person the man walking up to the porch of the dilapidated house could be, only one Hale young enough and male enough to be this attractive figure.

"Derek Hale." Allison announces, and Stiles lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

He's living next door to Derek Hale.

~~~

It's that Wednesday when Stiles introduces himself to Derek. Not so much introduces as makes a fool of himself, but he's pretty sure Derek remembers his face so he's going for polite introduction. 

Stiles is readjusting the markers he set up at the beginning of his house arrest that tell him how far he can venture from the signal centre in his house, looking down intently and wondering why on earth it seems the length of his green signal has shortened, when he's interrupted.

"Having some issues?" The hedge-shears Stiles is holding almost make him lose his right eye when he swings them dramatically in shock as he stands up quickly. Derek's eyebrows raise in amusement and Stiles flings the offending weapon out of his reach onto the lawn behind him, laughing nervously to cover up his almost-suicide and scratching at the side of his head when he sees who it is. Derek may be older and kind of totally out of Stiles's league, but he's still allowed to look… and imagine… and generally fantasise if he wants. No one says he can't so what's a little one on one action with his hand with Derek in mind? Not a crime, not at all.

"You could say that," He laughs again, averting his eyes from Derek's warm, playful gaze. _Bad thoughts,_ he tells himself, _Don't get carried away, he's laughing at you and not because you're cute and adorable like Macy says you are_. "How'd the move go?" Stiles asks for lack of anything else to say, brain absolutely wiped at the sight of Derek in a grey t-shirt and casual jeans. The fact that Stiles catalogues everything Derek wears, noticing a lot more than he does with even his own outfit choices, is not a matter of concern. At least, that's what he's telling himself.

"As well as moving into an almost completely burned down house can go." Derek says, the right side of his mouth lifting in a wry smile.

Stiles knows his mouth his hanging open but he can't help but stare at Derek. He doesn't know whether to laugh it off or cry with him and so instead decides to stay silent. At least, that's what his brain had decided.

"Oh, uh, yeah, your family used to live there, right? I mean, before… the fire."

Derek doesn't say anything, just lifts his eyebrows in amusement once more.

"Yes. Okay. Uh, so, are you going to do any renovations?" Stiles perks up at the thought, stepping forward towards his driveway and now only four or so feet from Derek. "I could help!" He suggests cheerfully, grinning as wide as he can to erase any allusions of attraction and awkwardness. Derek looks at him strangely, like he thinks Stiles is not all there, and Stiles absently notes that maybe he needs to take the crazy eyes down a notch.

"You're on house arrest, Stiles." Derek states flatly, a reluctant smile forming.

"Yeah, uh, but I could… I could design?" Stiles cringes at his eagerness and tries not to fawn over Derek like he's sure his neighbour's used to. Those muscles, though. And that smile, that small one. Stiles is so gone.

"Maybe you can just tell me what you think when it's finished." Derek replies, placing his hand on Stiles's shoulder. He looks down to his left, following the rather large, quite hairy but ultimately attractive arm up to broad shoulders, a biteable neck and that remarkable face. Stiles needs to stop. He clears his throat, sure that his voice will come out high and young rather than the low and sexy he's trying to achieve.

_Sexy?_ Stiles criticises himself, _Really?_

"I'd… like that."

They're both silent for the few seconds it takes for Derek to realise he's still gripping Stiles's left shoulder, and then the air seems to thin and Derek is saying goodbye and walking the twenty feet down the street to his own house.

Stiles is not sure whether to smother, or congratulate himself. Maybe he'll do both. Right after taking a freezing cold shower. He shudders at the thought.

~~~

And so it starts. At first, it's perfectly innocent. A friendly wave here, a pleased 'hello' there. Then Stiles puts his foot in his mouth and ends up making embarrassingly awkward observations like "Have you been gardening recently? Your arms look… big. Not that your arms weren't big before-", and "You're sweaty. Like, _really_ sweaty," that could be perceived as exactly that - Stiles putting his foot in his mouth - or as Derek seems to see them, as come-ons.

That's when the spying begins.

Stiles is the first to admit that he's not usually this creepy. Scratch that, he's not usually this creepy about the people he _pursues_ … because he doesn't pursue anyone, _ever_. But a guy has needs, and if Derek giving him friendly pats on the back, or lingering glances, or small smiles that are more like smirks, are all Stiles is getting, then he's got to have some ammunition of his own to use in his private time. He's a teenage boy with nothing better to do. That's how he reasons it.

Derek, though, is much more interesting to spy on than anyone else. For one, he's kind of a Greek god, physically, so it's a given that having a shower is going to be _a hell of a time_ (not that Stiles can see anything but an outline and half the time Derek closes the blinds, anyway); but, he's also weirdly precise. He eats at the exact same times, he exercises for approximately two hours, always in the morning, and he dedicates four hours every day at five o'clock to go somewhere. Where, Stiles doesn't know, but Derek always comes back looking… satisfied. Stiles doesn't know whether he goes to… _satisfy_ … himself, whether he scratches an itch that might be a little disturbing, or whether he actually has friends he hangs out with. Regardless, Stiles refers to it as the creepy hours because Derek leaves seeming slightly unhinged and comes back looking his own unusual version of content.

Stiles doesn't want to think about it.

He doesn't, not until Derek mentions it in a way that could be totally innocuous if Stiles didn't know exactly what he was talking about, which he does.

"Stiles," Derek greets a week or so into their shy sort-of companionship, the usual, staring at Stiles until he opens his eyes, squinting into the sun that's overhead. He's actually outside for once, basking in the summer sun and mourning his inability to bask in it elsewhere, like a lacrosse field.

A smile stretches his face, which is flushed from the heat. He sits up, leaning back on an arm and using the other to shade his eyes.

"Yo," Stiles answers, and immediately wishes he hadn't spoken at all. It's becoming a recurring thing in his interactions with Derek, wishing he hadn't spoken.

Derek sits down next to him, smooth and graceful, the complete opposite of Stiles in everything he does.

It's not until Stiles turns his head to the left, towards Derek, that he realises how close he is, how his hand is brushing Stiles's left arm which is now back down by his side. 

Neither of them is saying anything and Stiles realises how weird it must be to an outsider, a delinquent and his marginally older next-door neighbour sitting awfully close and not really doing anything, just kind of breathing into each other's faces.

Stiles feels like he's part of a soap opera. He doesn't really have the strength to pull away, though.

Derek's left hand hovers somewhere near Stiles's jaw, not really touching but not not doing anything either.

"You don't have to keep looking, you know." Derek breathes. Stiles is too busy staring at his lips to really do anything but hum in acknowledgement.

_Wait, is Derek really... ? Did he just? Was that..._ approval _? To_ pursue _him?!_

Derek smirks, and his hand falls back into place by his own hip. The corner of his eyes crinkle and Stiles's stomach turns in on itself. This is not good for his supposed punishment. Derek Hale was not part of that deal.

"See you later, Stiles." Derek exclaims, five feet away and walking back to his house. Stiles is staring at his ass, mesmerised, before he snaps back to reality.

"Wait, what?"

~~~

A few days later - or a few weeks, Stiles really can't be sure these days, everything blurs - Stiles is back to his best, ignoring Derek's beautiful exterior and playing some _Call of Duty_ whilst it pours with rain outside and talking to Allison on his cell at the same time, a requirement of his dad's that has strangely (but not really) brought him closer to his best friend's girlfriend, who now has her own title as best friend. It's weird, but weirdly cool.

"No, no, don't hide there! Yeah, Allie, alright, let's talk about something that's not Scott, okay? DUCK! DUCK, YOU IDIOT! No, not you, Allie, no." His teammates are struggling to win this match, and Stiles feels like he's fighting a losing battle with them. This game never used to be so stressful, but then he thinks maybe he never used to be this good. His player jerks sharply to the left as his thumb settles on his controller with such a realisation.

"Maybe it's time to stop playing, Stiles." Surprisingly, that's not Allison speaking. He shocks himself by putting the game away and turning his full attention to his best friend because, it seems, she's taken his advice and decided to talk about something other than her boyfriend.

"-o Lydia really wants me to hang out with her on Tuesday but that involves Jackson and you know how I feel about Jackson-"

"What, that he's a cruel, misogynistic jerk-face?"

"Well, that too, but I don't know, he just sort of stands there and doesn't say much. I get it because, like, why would he want to go shopping? But seriously, there's only so long someone can go without blinking, and Jackson reaches that limit and surpasses it. _Hourly_."

"Take Scott." Stiles suggests, hoping that maybe next time Scott sees him he can thank Stiles for such a good idea for punishment. After all, Scott punishes Stiles every day. By having a girlfriend. Who he can make out with. And that Stiles can't relate to ever. Because he's never made out. With anyone.

"I'm not going to take Scott." Allison replies, her tone suggesting he's ludicrous for simply mentioning it. She continues to babble in that way that means he doesn't really have to listen all that intently, just makes the right noises and comments 'that's stupid' every now and then and she's content. He moves his chair closer to the window and checks the time. It's nearly five o'clock, meaning Derek Hale will be leaving any minute to go and be creepy and Stiles intends to catch his every move as he does. His binoculars that he borrowed from his dad (stole) and will give back (eventually, maybe after the house arrest) are on his desk, also waiting for Derek.

"-iles, are you even listening? Are you spying on Derek again? Stiles, I thought we talked about thi-"

The front door opens slowly, and Stiles is surprised because everything Derek does is executed in a manner that suggests he has limited time to dedicate to such menial tasks as opening doors and collecting mail and even less time to dedicate to sleep, which Stiles - in all his snooping glory - has definitely noticed. Derek emerges, carrying a wooden box, lid firmly placed, in one hand as he shuts the door with the other. He moves gracefully, unlike someone who would be carrying a box (because, really, those things are all kinds of awkward), and places the item in his car. The rain doesn't even look like it's touching him, let alone becoming a nuisance. His head turns, like he hears something but can't quite decipher it, and Stiles's breaths become a little quicker. There are a few seconds where only the movement of the rain can be seen before Derek rolls his shoulders, a release of tension that makes Stiles exhale loudly. Derek settles as he rolls them, looking eased, and Stiles stares a moment because there was something not quite right about the movement, something a little animalis-

" _Stiles!_ "

"Whoa, Jesus!" Stiles flails, attempting to regain his balance from the precarious position he'd been sitting in his chair. "Allison! Seriously, what the hell?"

"Serves you right, spying on Derek like that. Just leave him alone, alright?"

"But why?" he whines, unashamed because Derek is the one person in this neighbourhood who isn't living in a soap opera, and that's _interesting_ to Stiles.

"Because how would you feel if some eighteen year old delinquent kid was spying on you from the house next door? And not even in the pervy way!" Allison sounds scandalised by her last sentence and Stiles wonders if she would've been comfortable _had_ it been in a pervy way. And it has. But she doesn't need to know that.

"I don't know! Flattered?" Derek Hale spying on him would be something to write home about, damn.

" _Stiles._ "

"Alright, alright, fine. For now, though. This guy's way too strange and attractive to give up watching anytime soon." Stiles eyes Derek's Camaro as it reverses out of his driveway, heading towards out of town and far away from Beacon Hills. "You'd think he'd start in on renovating that burnt-out shell of a house, though, wouldn't you?" It's been weeks and Derek hasn't even begun to take down the utterly unfixable elements of his house. Maybe he wasn't planning on renovations, after all.

Allison takes a moment to answer and when she does, her voice is quiet.

"His whole family lived there happily before it burnt down, Stiles. I'm not sure he'd want to change much."

Stiles scrutinises the exterior of the Hale house; dark wood, blackened in places, sturdy to have survived so long but too fragile to rely on. The garden, plain grass that's mostly dying, with little shrub variety. The roof, dislodged in places but still managing to hold the rain at bay. The porch railing is rotted, the paint flaking off, a sad reflection of its once - Stiles guesses - pristine white condition.

Pushing his chair back from the window, Stiles knows he doesn't remember much. The Hale house burned down when he was nine, and at the time his family had been on vacation for two weeks near Vermont, visiting family he now hasn't seen since he was thirteen. They'd come back to a cold house of their own, and a ruined one next door - one Stiles could swear was still steaming despite the fire having been a week prior. He'd been sad for the family, that so many had died and that the living didn't even have a home to go back to, but he was nine, and he didn't know them. He forgot about it pretty quickly, despite the graveyard he lived next to, and it soon became a permanent fixture on his street. It had only seemed unusual to him that it still stood, untouched and just as depressing as ever, when Allison had moved in on the other side of him and asked about it that first day.

_"So that other house next to yours, that's pretty freaky, right?" Allison says, and she sounds so much like Scott that for a second he has to force himself to take notice of her long, brown hair, pale skin, and girl parts._

_"Not really. It's been there for a while now. Gas leak in the basement or something." He replies, not really knowing how to send out friendship vibes that aren't mistaken for more-than-friendship vibes. He may only be a recently-realised bisexual sixteen year old, but that doesn't mean he wants a relationship right now because he really doesn't. But a friend would be nice._

_"Oh." She deflates, the topic of conversation obviously not layered or interesting enough to go on for very long. Suddenly, her features brighten again, "Do you want to come over and hang out?" Allison seems to realise what she's said and how enthusiastically she's said it because she tones it down a bit, looking away casually, "I mean, you know, it'd be nice to meet a few people before I start school, that's all."_

_"Actually-" Stiles begins to decline, but sees her attempt at a blank expression and recognises the defence mechanism for what it is. He paints on a bright smile, more confident than he feels._

_"Actually, that'd be great. Can I bring my friend Scott?"_

And there's that story.

But Derek. He doesn't remember him before or after the fire, not at all. He guesses of all of the things his nine year old self was worried about, an orphaned fifteen year old he'd never met before didn't really make it up to the top of the list. Now, though.

Now Derek's living in the graveyard next door with his fancy car and his weird sleeping patterns and Stiles can't help but notice. 

~~~

Television blaring, chomping down on his favourite - peanut butter and jelly dip with carrots (don't ask) - snack, Stiles doesn't hear his dad come in. So when the TV is suddenly muted, he doesn't understand what's happening.

"Wha?" He manages to avoid spilling the dip all down his front, but it's a near miracle.

"Are you deaf, son?" His dad asks, serious face and serious eyebrows and Stiles gulps.

"Um… no?"

"Are you hearing impaired in any way?" John asks again, this time sitting down beside Stiles on the couch and looking at his snack like it came straight from hell to make him feel sick.

"No…"

"Then why do you insist on watching TV like you are?" He sighs, raising his eyebrows toward his son.

"Because of the action, Dad! Like, the sound is super important, and actors mumble, okay? I have to turn it up a lot and then the background music is really loud and I can't help it, okay. Besides, this kid doesn't even speak properly, how am I meant to understa-"

"Stiles, are you watching _Toddlers & Tiaras_ again?" John exclaims as the advertisements finish and he's faced with three year olds eating pixie sticks and walking around with make-up on.

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

"No."

"Then yes."

John rolls his eyes, but Stiles could never be ashamed, not anymore. The show is just way too entertaining. He placates his dad by firmly stating that no daughter of his will ever do pageants, thanks to that show. He's convinced it's the only reason John lets him watch it. As a _deterrent_.

"Look, if it bothers you so much, I can switch. I've seen this episode, anyway." He ignores the incredulous stare his dad sends his way and flicks over to the news, where Jeremy from channel six looks very somber.

_"-ale, twenty six, has been reported missing this morning following a disturbing phone call received by a family member. She is, as said previously, a twenty six year old caucasian female, of average height and a slender build, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was last seen in a black Camaro vehicle, dent on the front bumper. If you catch sight of Laura, a woman with a similar description, or of such a vehicle, be sure to call 180-"_

"That's Derek's sister, isn't it?" Stiles asks quietly, looking toward his father. John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. Stiles knows where he gets it from.

"Yes, that's Derek's sister." He replies, voice strained.

"And Derek has a black Camaro." Stiles states, hoping against all hope that his hot next door neighbour that he kind of has a thing for didn't kill his own sister.

"Yes, Derek has a black Camaro. Stiles, you know what happened the last time you involved yourself in a case-"

"But Dad, that guy was a total creep! Didn't you tell me he was arrested a year later for attempted sexual assault? I rest my case!" Stiles exclaims, gesturing wildly and only just managing to avoid hitting his dad in the face with a flying carrot stick.

"Yes, but Stiles, we're _trying_ to avoid careless assumptions here. If Laura is missing because of Derek-" Laura, her name is Laura, "-then that's a domestic dispute we're dealing with. But anything else, it could have ties to Derek. Hell, it could be to _get_ to Derek-" John pauses, and his face tells Stiles he's said too much already, "My point _is_ ," He stresses, looking Stiles right in the eyes, "is that you need to keep yourself out of it. You know I'm proud of you, turning your grades around and speaking to Scott and Allison again after your sentencing, but that doesn't give you free reign to get back into my police business. Use your mind for something a little more legal and a little less depressing, alright?"

His dad looks hopeful and Stiles nods automatically, wanting to appease his father in any way he can. On the surface, at least. Because Stiles is for sure investigating this case. He has nothing better to do. And Derek is in his interests these days. Besides, what is life without a little illegality every now and then? Although, Stiles cringes to himself, he's probably had more than his fair share in the past year.

"Alright. Dinner in the microwave?" John asks, pushing himself up from the couch to walk into the kitchen in the next room.

"Yep. Vegetable lasagna." His dad turns to look at him scathingly. Stiles stares right back. "We're being _healthy._ "

John grumbles then returns to the kitchen, and Stiles hears faintly, "Just like your mother."

He stops the PB and J lathered carrot stick on its path to his mouth and is certain his dad didn't mean for him to hear that, didn't even mean to say it.

They've been doing better. _He's_ been doing better. There's been no unnecessary violence, no loudmouth cussing at his dad, no failed papers or tests, no _'You've got eighteen messages from Scott; you gonna answer him anytime soon?'_. Stiles is better. He'll never be perfect, not without his mom, but he's getting there. He thinks about her always, but it's far away now, not as sharp and not as debilitating. He knows if she were here she'd be badgering his dad, too.

_"You're working too much, John. Take a break, put your feet up. I've made some tuna salad- don't look at me like that, you'll thank me when you're sixty."_

Thinking of his mom, Stiles resolves himself to figure this one out, with or without his dad's expertise at hand.

He pulls his laptop over to himself. Honey Boo-Boo Child dancing in his peripheral vision, Stiles gets Google up and running and starts his search.

_"Hale house fire beacon hills 2004"_

Two hours later and Stiles is raving, "Get this, _'only three out of the sixteen people in the house at the time of the fire survived'_!"

Scott sighs, his slower, ADHD-less brain not as quick to pick up on the nuances of investigation. Stiles doesn't blame him. 

"And that's supposed to mean what, exactly?"

Stiles scrolls down the news article some more.

"It _means_ , dumbass, that excluding Derek and Laura, there's one other Hale alive and kicking." Stiles breathes out, eyes widening. "My dad said someone could have killed Laura, or Laura's death could have _ties_ to Derek, right? This relative, what if they're next?"

"Stiles, we don't know who it is. We don't even know if Derek is the killer! What reason would he have to kill his own sister, huh?"

"Psychopathic tendencies?" Stiles bites out, sarcastic. "I don't freakin' _know_ , man! I'm not a mind reader of weirdly attractive, hugely buff murderers that try to kiss me!"

Scott pauses, but seems to choose to forget Stiles's choice of words, until he catches on. " _Kiss?!_ "

"Wait a second," Stiles mutters, eyes flying across his laptop screen, reading and reading and _oh my god-_ "They don't know what caused the fire."

"They don't?" Scott sounds extremely confused "Try to _kiss?!_ " Stiles attempts to clear most of that up.

"Or who." Stiles breathes out heavily, running a nervous hand through his overgrown hair, "This could be arson, Scott."

"You're saying Derek set fire to his whole family and, for some reason, eight years later, he's decided to do away with the rest of them?" Scott sounds sceptical. "In what world would that be sane, Stiles?"

"It doesn't have to be sane, Scott! Murderers aren't sane people. This is plausible. This is something, right? I mean, this could make sense with the right circumstances?" The picture next to the article is of the Hale family. The immediate family - the owners of the Hale house - they're in the center, with other family members surrounding. Stiles squints, can recognise Gemma and Frank Hale, both dark-haired and bright-eyed, smiling politely in the family portrait. Their hands are on the shoulders of their children; to the left, Laura Hale, a much younger, but altogether similar-looking happy teenager. And to the right, Derek. Derek, whose younger face is as blank as it always has been to Stiles, and whose eyes reflect off of the camera strangely, like a lens flare.

"Exactly, Stiles, _with the right circumstances_. Just leave it, man, we are way too old for this. It was cool in middle school but now it's freaking me out." 

"Scott-"

"I'm gonna go see Allison. See you later, Stiles. And _don't_ think you're getting out of explaining this _kiss_."

Scott hangs up on him.

"It's freakin' _midnight_ , dude!" He exclaims to no one. John snorts from the other room.

~~~

Toward the end of his first month under house arrest, Stiles is constantly tired. If he were honest with himself, he would admit he doesn't know whether he sleeps or not anymore. He attempts to lie in bed, thinking of nothing, but often a noise will startle him. Like tyres on tarmac, or the slight squeal of brakes. Occasionally, he hears a door slam, or a loud thump… all originating from the Hale house.

He doesn't know what to think. He'll wake up, alert, and scramble to the window with the prime view of the whole left side of Derek's house, but won't see anything. He'll glimpse a door closing, or a flash of clothing through a window, but nothing substantial, no _evidence_. Not like before. It's like Derek is hiding from him, even though he basically groped Stiles on the lawn that afternoon.

There's also the howling, which- okay, weird. Either Derek has a dog that he chains up all day and all night and doesn't decide to feed _ever_ , or it's Derek himself. Stiles doesn't want to touch that with a ten foot pole, because either Derek's having some seriously great, somewhat animalistic sex (which Stiles is _not_ thinking about), or has some very unusual habits. 

So the guy makes some suspicious noises, so it seems like he doesn't sleep. That doesn't necessarily mean he's a murderer. At least, that's what Stiles keeps telling himself. He reluctantly _likes_ the guy, so he doesn't exactly want to be known for crushing on murderers. That is until a few days before his first month is up (he's counting down because _freedom_ ).

_"There has been another disappearance with possible links to the Hale case; caucasian female Bethany Reid, aged twenty-six, was reported missing yesterday morning by her boyfriend, who told authorities she had been anxious since the news of Laura Hale's disappearance. The police are still investigating."_

Stiles opens his mouth-

"No, Stiles. No. We are not talking about this." John says, changing the channel and reluctantly settling on a new favourite of Stiles's, _Dance Moms_.

"But Dad-" He begins.

" _No_. You only need to know what the news knows, that's _it_." John is adamant, and Stiles doesn't bother pushing because his dad will come out with it sooner or later. He likes sharing his cases, even if they're totally disgusting or just plain wrong. Stiles thinks it's because he wouldn't be able to do his job, otherwise. God knows Stiles wouldn't; the kind of stuff you see in the case files _alone_ , not even counting on-site… well, Stiles understands.

It's after dinner that his father finally spits it out.

"They were both in the same grade at Beacon Hills High." Stiles knows what he's talking about immediately, but continues to shovel pasta in his mouth for fear of scaring his father off. Surprisingly, John pushes the case file he'd been revising throughout dinner over to Stiles. Stiles glances at it while he eats, ignoring the smiling faces of the missing girls and going straight for the facts.

"What I don't have is a more immediate connection. They weren't friends, they weren't in any classes together and they weren't on any of the same sports teams. It's like they never spoke and yet as soon as Beth heard about Laura she's skittish and concerned and looking over her shoulder every three seconds?" His dad pauses, dropping his fork agitatedly into his unfinished bowl of tuna pasta. "It just doesn't add up."

For a few minutes it's quiet except for Stiles's fork chinking against his plate. His dad is right, it doesn't add up. If something had happened to Laura (and Stiles knows almost certainly that she's dead; missing cases unsolved for more than 48 hours are usually thought of as murders from then on), then it shouldn't have even registered on Beth's radar. For all intents and purposes, Laura was no one to Beth.

"Maybe she saw it as a warning," Stiles says, pushing his empty plate away and frowning at his father, "Maybe she knows something, knows that if Laura was attacked then it was only a matter of time before she was."

John looks at him for a moment, thinking.

"I think there's more to it than some guy killing twenty-six year old women," Stiles clarifies, "Maybe Laura was a means to an end and now Bethany is the real deal-"

"So you're saying they're not connected?" His dad asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Not exactly," Stiles pauses, searching for the right words, "I'm saying they're murders with different motives, but they're still connected." Stiles's brain is churning, and he knows tonight he'll get even less sleep than usual. He has no idea what Derek is doing, if he's doing it; killing his sister and then killing a girl who didn't even _know_ his sister? Stiles thinks Derek's definitely a brand of crazy he's never encountered before. Why does Stiles have to lust after this? What is his life?

He looks over the case files flippantly, hoping to find something that'll tell him _anything_ , anything at all. He stops, eyes widening.

"What is it?" John asks, sitting up a little straighter and looking nervously between the files and Stiles's shocked face. "Stiles?"

"Okay, uhm - morbid much, but let's presume both of these girls are dead," John purses his lips, frowning disapprovingly as Stiles continues, "And let's presume, yet again, that they were both killed the day of their reported disappearance; or, at least, the day they were last seen,"

"Okay," His dad says slowly, playing along.

"Look at the dates." Stiles orders, pointing to both of the dates at the top of the files, searching his dad's face.

John pauses, muttering the dates under his breath, "June 4th… July 3rd."

"Almost exactly a month apart." Stiles announces proudly.

"So you think he's going backwards? The next disappearance will be August 2nd?" John asks, curious and slightly sceptical because that's a pretty far stretch, but also a very big coincidence.

"No!" Stiles sighs, frustrated, "No, those are the dates of the full moon this year. June 4th was a full moon, and so was Tuesday: July 3rd."

"And you know this how?" His dad inquires, eyebrow raised.

Stiles splutters for a moment.

"Uh… lucky guess?"

John rolls his eyes, not even bothering to ask further. "And you're sure?"

"Positive." Stiles states, nodding confidently, his weird trivial knowledge for once coming in handy.

"Great," John says sarcastically, "We've got a lycanthrope on our hands." Sighing, he gets up to put his plate away and Stiles knows that's his cue to leave.

But he's stuck on one thing.

Lycanthrope.

_No_ … it can't be.

~~~

It's the next day that Stiles is convinced Derek Hale has clinical lycanthropy, or is actually a werewolf.

He's more inclined to go with clinical lycanthropy because werewolves? A whole lot more than he signed up for, honestly.

Plus, there's the whole deal where werewolves are mythical creatures of the night that would kill their best friend if they got in their way, would kill their _sister-_

Oh, okay, so maybe Derek Hale is a werewolf. Stiles doesn't want to like him, doesn't want to _know_.

But maybe he does, because he researches everything there is to know about werewolves and now keeps a silver knife in his bedside drawer. No, that's a lie, he actually keeps several, all hidden throughout the house and his bedroom specifically. There's no way he's ignoring something so simple. And if Derek turns out to be a normal guy? Well, no harm done. Stiles is just assured that if Derek is somehow what Stiles thinks he is (a very hot but very bad werewolf man), then Stiles will be prepared.

As usual when Stiles gets a little hyperactive - he likes to call it passionate - about things, Scott brushes him off, and Allison is too busy ogling her boyfriend and Derek simultaneously to see the problem.

"Look, Stiles, just ask him out, already." She tells him, exasperated. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish.

"Uhm, I have no _idea_ what you're talking about-" He tries to divert, thinking about all the ways he's going to say 'I told you so' when he captures Derek in his wolf-puppy form.

"Really?" Allison asks sceptically, eyeing him. It makes him really quite uncomfortable. She sighs. "He's hot, you're…" she pauses, tilting her head, "-kind of cute. I say you go for it!"

"Wow, Allie, thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll just go jump off a bridge now because that would be _less suicidal than dating that monster!_ " He makes a face, "Not to mention he's like, six years older than us? Yeah, so not going to happen in the history of ever."

Allison seems unconcerned, "My parents are eight years apart," He does _not_ want to know, "Stranger things have happened, Stiles!" She sing-songs and wow, he really hates her. Best friend title officially _revoked_.

He ushers them out of his house, dissatisfied with their loyalty and vowing revenge sometime soon.

Two days later, he speaks to Derek Hale for the first time since the almost-kiss. At least, face-to-face; Stiles likes to think their midnight conversations that involve him asking Derek about his workout routine and his unhappy eyebrows have bonded them spectacularly.

He still thinks Derek's a murdering werewolf, though.

It's when he's coming down the stairs, ready to make a fantastic lunch of pancakes and waffles (because breakfast foods are universal all-day foods) that he hears voices, as in _multiple_ , coming from the kitchen. Unless his father brought over a lady friend for some Saturday afternoon tea - three o'clock is a perfect time for lunch, Stiles convinces himself - with a very deep, masculine voice, Stiles presumes it's one of the guys from the station. He couldn't be more wrong.

"Stiles," His dad greets him as Stiles freezes in the doorway, sure to look every bit the scared bunny rabbit he's trying not to be, "You know Derek, right? He used to live next door to us when you were a kid. He moved back in a month ago." His dad carefully doesn't mention the fire but Derek doesn't react, he doesn't do _anything_ ; he doesn't blink, he doesn't move, he doesn't even seem to be breathing. Stiles gets it - he's struggling with his own breathing at the moment, too.

"Hello, Stiles." Derek says. His voice is quiet, but just as terrifying now that Stiles's lust has diminished.

"Oh, uh-" He coughs loudly, trying to clear his airways because he's not _breathing_ , but there's nothing in the way, they're _clear_ , his lungs just hurt and- "-hey, uh, Derek."

He looks to his dad incredulously because there is a _werewolf in their house_.

"I had some trouble with the jeep on the way back from the store; Derek here was nice enough to take a look at it for me. Why didn't you tell me your jeep was about to collapse, son? Now I've got to get it towed to the auto shop. Luckily Derek lives so close - he offered to give me a ride back."

Stiles gapes for a moment, disbelieving. Derek is standing next to the kitchen counter, looking casual and good in jeans and a blue shirt that is _way_ too tight and Stiles can _not_ cope.

"It works fine whenever I drive it." He protests sullenly.

Derek snorts, and Stiles gives him the filthiest glare he can muster up because Derek can not just come into his kitchen and insult _Jessie_ , not when he's a werewolf who's been murdering people left, right and center. Not when he kissed him but _didn't_.

"Which reminds me, where are your keys?" John asks, looking at Stiles expectantly.

"My keys?" Stiles echoes, biting the inside of his cheek nervously. "My keys? Why do you need my keys?"

"Because I think we're going to have to get new ones cut. By the looks of it, the jeep was broken into in the past couple of days." Stiles eyes flash to Derek who doesn't react, yet again, "I haven't driven it since last week, and you sure haven't. I didn't leave it unlocked, so unless you went to get something…" His dad trails off hopefully.

"No." Stiles replies, still staring at Derek.

"That's what I thought."

"They're up in my room, in my bedside drawer." He explains, and is surprised when his dad nods and moves to go upstairs to get the keys and okay, Derek definitely hypnotised his dad or something because that never happens.

"Stiles," Derek begins, and he pushes off the counter, walking over to where Stiles is still hovering just inside the doorway. Although, Stiles isn't sure he'd call it walking because it looks more like prowling but he doesn't mention it. He gulps as Derek stops not even three feet in front of him.

Stiles laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, "Oh, uh, yeah, Derek, thanks for, you know, bringing my dad home-"

"Stiles," Derek says again and Stiles's mouth shuts abruptly, arm falling to his side, "You know that I know."

Stiles makes eye contact with Derek for not even a millisecond before he looks away, out the window where summer is showing off with its bright green grass and tweeting birds, such a contrast to his situation and, _oh God,_ Derek is moving closer.

Stiles quickly dodges him and moves to the other side of the kitchen where the table is now between them. "Do I?" He laughs again and hopes Derek can't hear his voice crack, "I don't know anything, I don't even know what you're talking about."

"I like my privacy." Derek is staring him down, now, and Stiles can see his fists clenching, eyes narrowing-

"That's not what you said two weeks ago."

"Stiles," Derek repeats and Stiles really hopes he stops with the name-stating because any more and Stiles will start associating it with other things, things not so frightening. "It's not what y-"

"Derek-" He begins, but is thankfully interrupted by his dad. They both look to him as he walks into the kitchen. He holds up a butter knife.

"Stiles, why is there a silver knife in your bedside drawer?"

Derek's eyes snap to him suddenly and Stiles tries not to cower.

"Uh… safe-keeping?" He cringes at his own explanation and doesn't miss the unimpressed look his father sends his way.

"Right." John says slowly, not noticing the tension in the room as Derek continues to glare at Stiles, and deposits the knife on the counter. Stiles looks to it hopefully. "Okay then, well thanks, Derek, for your help."

Derek turns slowly to John and Stiles doesn't miss his tense shoulders and bulging biceps and _Stiles is going to die_.

"No problem." He huffs out, turning to follow John to the front door, finally leaving. Stiles heaves a sigh of relief.

"You're welcome anytime, Derek." He hears his dad add as Derek walks down the porch steps and Stiles nearly crumples to the floor.

Derek Hale has an open invitation into his house. This is not good, not now.

He's got to tell Scott.


	2. The Second Month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just to let you know, I've taken some liberties with the ages so that Stiles is a bit older by 2011. But, the age differences between all the characters remains the same.
> 
> I'm extremely flattered by the comments on this, and I hope this chapter is up to scratch! Unfortunately, this is un-betaed, but I'll probably edit it later given my beta's comments. Before I forget, thanks to Luisa, who is awesome and doesn't even read Sterek but decided to beta anyway.
> 
> If you're interested, I'm wolvelihood over at tumblr.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

"Stiles, exactly _how_ many times have you seen Derek out and about being suspicious?" Scott questions, sceptical as always and attached to Allison at the hip quite literally at the moment. 

"Well-" Stiles begins reluctantly, remembering the many nights that he lay awake listening to strange howls and obnoxious thumps. It's not that nothing had happened, he just hadn't really seen it.

"What if he works a night job? That would explain the weird hours." Scott reasons as Allison basically pets his face and Stiles stares for a moment, completely amazed that they literally can't keep their hands off of each other.

"Derek Hale received hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not more, from the insurance company that paid for his ruined home and dead family. Somehow, I don't think he's struggling financially." Stiles rolls his eyes, grabbing the still-borrowed (stolen) binoculars from his messy desk and looking into the Hale house. Derek is shirtless on his living room floor, doing pushups with one hand that look effortless. Stiles hates him.

"Stiles, surely with all this free time you have you'd be able to clean up your room a bit? I mean-" Allison pauses, holding up a particularly muddy pair of shorts, with two fingers, from that unusually cold, rainy day the previous week when Stiles had decided to venture into his yard for a better look at Derek. It hadn't worked so well when his anklet had beeped accusingly at him and he'd run inside for fear of being arrested. For some reason Stiles gets the feeling his dad enjoys seeing him in handcuffs way too much. Probably something to do with the fact that Stiles is pretty much immune to parent discipline otherwise. As the Sheriff, however… well, John manages to keep Stiles in line. "It's getting a little out of hand."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, you don't have to sleep here if you don't want to." Stiles mutters, still focusing on Derek who seems to be breaking out into minimal sweat, which is a first. Stiles narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"I'll protect you." He hears Scott say proudly, and almost snorts at the prospect that Allison needs to be protected from _dirt_. Although, Stiles supposes, Scott has said weirder and more offensive things before and Allison has waved them off.

He can practically feel her eye-roll from his position next to the window, which is producing far too much glare for his snooping to be useful.

"Damn it," Stiles curses, nearly breaking the binoculars when he slams them back down onto his desk in frustration. He turns to the other two, who look at him warily, "Look, there's just something about him. No one is that good-looking and that mysterious and that subtly _threatening_ without some background. He likes his privacy?" Stiles looks over his shoulder, back out the window in search of Derek's silhouette, "Yeah, well, he's not getting it."

He turns back to his friends. He sighs.

"Will you _please_ stop making out? For my sanity?" Stiles asks, and they spring apart guiltily.

"Sorry." Allison murmurs, and Stiles nearly breaks his face with the strength of his eye-roll.

"Now, who's up for making a twinkie tower?"

~~~

Stiles spends the next week observing. Which isn't that much different to what he's spent his days doing recently, but it becomes a little more intense and a lot more stalker-like.

The thing is, Derek seems normal. And that's what irks Stiles, because he so clearly _isn't_.

When Derek is home - which Stiles admits, is not often - he's either looking broody as he flips through papers, or he's scrawling through old, leather-bound books, or he's working out. To Stiles, none of these actions relate, and he can't fathom why someone like Derek - who's young, rich and attractive - isn't going out and enjoying his youth. Stiles would be.

Unless Derek's a serial killer. Unless he's planning his next kill, searching for his next victim, and becoming strong enough so that no twenty-six year old woman can escape him.

Stiles looks; he stares and stares and begs some higher power to give him a sign, preferably one that glows _MURDERER_ because it's becoming increasingly apparent to him that he is worriedly attracted to Derek and that is very deadly, in more ways than one. Stiles curses his body and his curiosity for singling out Derek but blesses the skies above for his hot next-door neighbour. Stiles praises whoever decided to teach him a lesson through house arrest (thank _you_ , the judge that covered his case seven months ago), and hates that Derek decided he needed to be surly and monstrous and interesting.

The dark brow furrows in concentration as it pours over a dusty, black tome, and Stiles's own furrows with it. It's around half past nine at night and Stiles has finished dinner and has long since settled into his nightly relaxation ritual of Derek-watching.

Stiles is waiting. He's waiting for Derek to screw up.

And he's confident it'll happen soon.

~~~

He's not wrong. Two days later on Friday, July 13th (funny, that), Derek slips.

The Friday Derek fucks up is unusual. Not in that Scott and Allison, for once, aren't out on a date but are instead hanging with Stiles. Not in that Stiles himself isn't sick of their company yet. And not in that Stiles isn't watching Derek.

But in that Derek has company. Company of the female variety. Stiles is jealous.

"This is getting seriously creepy." Allison states, looking through the video camera Stiles set up as soon as Blonde Twenty-Six Year Old Number Three got out of the no-longer dented black Camaro, Derek following with an unusually warm look on his face.

Scott has the binoculars and is relating all he sees to Stiles, but Stiles sees enough. He sees the mood lighting, glimpses the empty glasses of wine; he sees Derek's arm around the blonde's shoulders and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prick up.

"It's not that he has a date, or that he's actually smiling," Allison comments, adjusting the focus on the camera as she zooms in on Derek's hand, which lingers over the blonde's collarbone and near her bra strap, suggestive but not demanding. "It's the look in his eyes," She moves the camera to the left so that Derek's face is in the shot, close up and charming but with a flash in his eyes that tells Stiles everything he needs to know, "He's looking at her like-"

"Like she's prey." Stiles interjects, moving closer to his window, simultaneously turning off the lights in his room. Derek's eyes flicker towards the Stilinski house for a second and then focus on his _date_ once more. "Because that's what she is."

Allison looks freaked but still holds the camera steady.

"I don't know whether we can assume that, Stiles," Scott starts. Stiles turns to him, raising his eyebrows in question. Scott retains his gaze on Derek through the binoculars, but seems to sense Stiles's silent prompting, "Maybe he _is_ actually dating her. Maybe that's lust you guys are seeing in his eyes. Maybe he really needs to get lai- _OH HOLY JESUS!_ " Scott finished with a yell.

Stiles whips his head around, almost flailing, following Scott's eyes to see the couch empty, the glasses on their sides and broken, wine everywhere, and the room still.

"What, what? What did I miss? Scott? SCOTT?" Allison is wide-eyed and silent and Scott's mouth is opening and closing wordlessly.

Stiles grits his teeth and grabs the camera from Allison's slack hands. It crashes to the floor and the noise it makes sounds thunderous given the silence of his bedroom. He picks it back up hastily, pausing the recording-

_FLASH_

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." Stiles mutters angrily, dropping to the ground after the flash of the camera and dragging Scott down with him. Allison is already pushed up against the wall beneath the window sill, staring at Stiles like he'll be able to reassure her of anything. He can't.

"God, oh God, what did you see?" He asks desperately, breathing heavily. He attempts to count his breaths, to stave off what looks to be an incoming panic attack.

"It was-"

"He grabbed her." They both look to Allison, whose teary gaze makes her look a whole lot more freaked than she did at the simple _possibility_ that Blonde Number Three was a victim, let alone an _actual_ one. "He grabbed her neck and threw her. He threw her across the room. There's no way she survived that." She looks to Stiles, brow furrowing in helplessness, "There is. _No_. _Way_."

Stiles exhales heavily, biting his lip and drawing blood because they're chapped, of course they're chapped, how can Stiles think of taking care of his fucking _lips_ when there's a killer next door-

"Jesus, that's- … Stiles, I don't know how he's that strong. That kind of move would be hard for an _Olympic javelin gold medalist!_ " Scott exclaims, mouth still open and confused and Stiles wants to kick him.

"We really don't need you to compare that girl to a _javelin_ , Scott!" Allison nearly screeches, terror clear in her voice. She seems calmer now but still affected and Stiles can't blame her, if _he'd_ seen that- 

"Oh, shit, okay, I gotta watch this, I have to-"

Scott is looking over the window sill, apparently unafraid to peek further and blindly whacks Stiles over the head.

"He's coming back, he's back! She's there!" Scott is whispering, but he may as well be shouting because by now Derek must know they're there, must know they're watching. The camera flashed, it went off, in the direction of Derek's house, of that particular room - there is no doubt. There would be no doubt in _Stiles's_ mind. 

Stiles angles the camera so that he can film without looking himself, the lens resting atop the windowsill and the flip-out screen facing him. The picture isn't clear, probably from the fact Stiles dropped the camera and he curses himself because _fuck_ , this is their evidence, this is how he _convicts_ Derek.

The girl is there. So is Derek. They're arguing; and how they got from fatal physical violence to arguing Stiles would pay to know. It's heated and Stiles hates that he can't hear what they're saying, that he can't even lip-read. Derek pushes her to the wall to their left of the couch, just next to the door. Stiles moves the camera so he can at least get them in the corner of the shot. Derek's hands are covering her wrists, which are on either side of her head. Stiles glances at Allison and she widens her eyes at him, just as shocked. He can hear Scott breathing heavily from his position crouching under the sill. Derek is talking to her face, almost spitting it seems, his teeth bared and gritted and she looks scared. She's baring her neck, her face turned toward the camera and her eyes glistening with tears.

His battery runs out.

" _Fuck!_ " Stiles drops the camera into his lap, careful to keep it undamaged. He's shaking. He runs his hands through his hair, now touching his ears, and he doesn't know what to think.

"What's he going to do to her?" Scott asks, now sitting beside Allison, gripping her hand tightly. Stiles quickly looks away, swallowing tightly. "What does he normally do to his victims?"

Stiles looks hopelessly around his room, chest heaving, attempting to get himself together because he _just_ witnessed-

" _Stiles?!_ "

"He's going to kill her. And he's going to hide her body."

It's not the full moon. Then why is Derek killing? Why is he killing again? He's human when the moon isn't full, he doesn't have that urge.

But apparently he does. Derek kills, human or not, and he's killing more frequently.

"These girls _disappear._ " Allison stresses, looking toward Stiles. "Where the hell is he hiding the bodies? In his _walls?_ "

It's meant as a joke, something no one would ever do because who wants rotting flesh residing behind their bed's headboard? Who wants evidence of their victims tied to them so strongly? Who wants to relish in their killings without any thought of the consequences?

"Derek Hale," Stiles whispers, horrified. His friends look to him worryingly. "Derek Hale is hiding those bodies in his house."

"Jesus," Scott breathes out, cracking his jaw - which Stiles knows to be a nervous habit.

"I've got to upload this." Stiles says suddenly, gripping his camcorder tightly and crawling across his room to his laptop. He finds his camera cord with the light from his phone and connects his camcorder up to his Macbook, which sits precariously on the edge of his bed.

It's synchronising.

Stiles breathes out heavily, letting his head fall back onto his bed.

There are a few minutes in which none of them say anything, in which the only light that flitters across the room is from the crescent moon outside, white and glowing.

"We have to go in there."

Surprisingly, it's not Stiles that says it, but Allison. Scott stares at her incredulously.

"We are not going in there, no. No, we are staying out of it. He's killing people, yeah, okay, but Stiles can tell his dad and we can just get the hell away because I can't die, I'm too young to die! I need to marry you, and have kids and-" He stops, realising what he's let slip.

Suddenly there's rustling outside and they all look at each other meaningfully. Stiles scrambles to get to the window in time as Scott and Allison peer inconspicuously at the scene below.

Derek Hale is dragging a heavy blue bag around the side of his house, looking to be intended for his garage which his Camaro is not currently occupying. Instead it sits, gleaming in the moonlight and shiny as anything, like it held no part in the events of that evening. Stiles looks away, fighting off shudders. He'll never look at a Camaro the same way again.

The bag looks heavy, like it could hold a human body. Actually, it's probably holding a human body. Stiles ignores the trembling in his hands as he grips the desk beside him.

It thunks as Derek hits some stairs and they all cringe in unison.

"That has to be her, right?" Scott whispers. Derek's head tilts meaningfully and they all duck below the window just in case. He doesn't pause, though, but keeps dragging the bag around the corner. He fishes his car keys from the pocket of his black slacks, the attire for his date of the evening, and opens his garage door. He places the bag just inside the door, almost reverently. He steps back and with a click of a button the garage door closes slowly, hiding the evidence of the night and their sure-fire method of charging Derek. Bodies in your house, the body of your dead _sister_ \- … well, that's more than incriminating.

They all stare as Derek returns to his home, calm and unruffled. The opposite of his angry, literally murderous self a mere half hour ago.

"We're going in." Stiles declares, because he _has_ to close this case. He's the only one who can.

"We are _not_ going into Derek Hale's house. No. Way. _In hell._ " Scott repeats forcefully.

~~~

"This is a bad idea. This is a very, _very_ bad idea." Scott whimpers two days later, attempting to look casual but failing spectacularly with his nervous eyes and shuffling feet. Derek is on his usual Sunday afternoon grocery run which usually takes an hour. They have plenty of time.

"You're doing well, man. It's fine. You'll be in and out in no time." Stiles soothes through the walkie-talkie. Not the best method of communication, but definitely the cheapest. Having two calls going at once would be a wreck to his phone bill.

"You okay, Allie?" Stiles asks into his phone, hearing her positive reply.

"I'm tailing him right now. He's in the health foods section, God knows why. That guy is built like a quarterback!" She whispers to him. He smiles, some of the tension easing in his shoulders. They've got this.

"Dude, this is a lot harder than it looks on the internet." Scott states, struggling with the equipment he needs to break into Derek's Camaro. Shopping for one means Derek can walk to the local grocery store which is incredibly useful for what they're about to do.

"What am I looking for, again?" Scott asks as he jimmies his thieving tools.

"The garage controls. We get into the garage, we get our evidence, we get our arrest." Stiles explains to Scott confidently. Scott nods along, repeating.

"Controls, garage, evidence, arrest. Got it." He finally unlocks the door, managing to leave the Camaro in pristine condition. Looking around carefully (and suspiciously, Stiles notes), Scott gets in, leaving the passenger door open for an easy getaway. Stiles has taught him well.

"I'm not seeing anything, Stiles." Scott whines nervously, looking over the panels and the hidden compartments and the-

"Dashboard? Really, Scott? You think he left the controls on the dashboard?" Stiles asks, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"I don't know!" Scott exclaims helplessly. 

"Glovebox!" Allison whispers to him and Stiles repeats the same to Scott, who opens the glovebox forcefully and searches through the papers there.

"Oh, God, he's gonna catch me, he's gonna find-"

"You're fine, Scott, it's okay. Allie?"

He hears conversation but no reply.

"Allie? You there?"

There's still no response, and Stiles curses.

"Damn it." He picks up his walkie-talkie and speaks assertively but not too urgently or Scott will flip.

"Scott, you need to get out of there."

"Yes! Got it! I told y- wait, what do you mean _get out_?" Scott screeches.

"Stiles, I lost him." Allison finally replies, sounding breathless. Stiles drags a hand down his face nervously. "I ran into Lydia and she was talkative _for once_. I'm in the car park now, I'm heading your way."

"Scott, get out of there _right now_. Allison lost Derek." Stiles orders, sweating now, the sun shining through the window to make him flush even more. This is _not good_.

"Oh, Jesus. Jesus, fuck, _shit._ " Scott swears, looking panicked and slamming the car door in his haste. He clutches the garage controls in his left hand and jogs towards the Stilinski house.

"Allie? You there, Allie? What's going on?"

"Stiles," He hears her say weakly, frightened.

"Allison? What is it? _Allison?!_ " Stiles speaks frantically into his cell, clutching at his hair in distress. Scott bursts in, throwing the controls onto Stiles's bed and quickly approaches Stiles as he puts his cell on speaker.

"Stiles, he's here, he sees me. He's outside my car, oh God-"

They look at each other, hovering anxiously.

"Allison!" Scott exclaims, fearful, when there's nothing but scared breathing. Stiles can't imagine what he's going through right now. Allison doesn't fit the description but Derek doesn't fit the pattern. He's erratic, unpredictable; the worst kind.

"Hello," They hear and that's Derek with his smooth voice and quiet manner. "Allison, is it?"

Stiles presumes she nods because Derek continues after a pause.

"I know you're following me." He states simply, and Stiles hears Allison protest faintly.

"No, I was just-"

She stops abruptly, obviously interrupted by a hand or a look.

"Let's not pretend you being here is anything but what it is." Derek states calmly once more. Stiles is frightened, so frightened. There's nothing more terrifying than someone who's seemingly sane but murders girls for fun.

Scott and Stiles are silent, not wanting to set Derek off or grab his attention. He needs to stay calm and polite and then maybe Stiles'll see one of his best friends again.

"I told your friend Stiles that I knew what he was doing. I like my privacy. That hasn't changed." Stiles inhales sharply, and suddenly he's certain that Derek knows Allison is on the phone to them. "I wish the three of you would respect that." Derek finishes, an empty threat if Stiles ever heard one. But he knows that's all it is - an _empty_ threat. Derek won't do anything there, in a mall car park where anyone could witness it. Allison is safe, at least for now. Stiles exhales, and sees Scott do the same. It's nice to know they're on the same page.

"Kids these days." And Stiles thinks that Derek just tried to crack a joke. Derek Hale is attempting humor in the face of Stiles knowing his secret. Stiles feels physically ill.

"Don't follow me again." Derek commands darkly and Stiles hears rustling, presumably Derek getting out of the car, and the slam of a car door.

Allison breathes out shakily, sounding teary.

"Fuck." She says, and disconnects.

~~~

After the catastrophe that was Sunday, for the rest of the week all Stiles feels he can do is research. Research is his friend; it never fails to occupy him and it always makes him feel better. He doesn't snoop on Derek, he can't when it's his friends' lives in danger and not just his own. The borrowed (stolen) binoculars remain safely in his bedside drawer alongside his silver butter knife and his walkie-talkie. The articles he printed out about the Hale fire are crumpled up, discarded like trash in the corner of his room. He can't look at them, Derek would know (Stiles might be a little paranoid), but he can't bear to throw them out. They're _important_. If only Stiles could _see_ the loophole, if only he could _figure out_ -

He abruptly stops perusing Bethany Reid's police file on Tuesday, eyes locked on one sentence, small and tucked away within the depths of her pretty extensive folder, filled mostly with counts of public nudity and public drunkenness. Stiles wonders how someone so wild somehow got involved with _Derek_ , of all people.

_Hale fire, 2004: brought in for questioning._

"Questioning? Well, that's sufficiently vague." Stiles mutters, fingers running over the sentence, mind whirring and still coming up with nothing. He picks up his pen, and jots down on his most recent notes page on Bethany.

_Questioning re Hale case._

It's significant. Stiles knows it is. There's a crack in this particular case, and a huge freakin' _hole_ in the Hale case. It's a matter of which comes first, and which one will lead him to the perpetrator of the other.

He can't ask John. His dad wasn't on the Hale case, was away in Vermont with him and his mom. Even then, even if John _could_ help, Stiles isn't meant to be researching this case. He's not meant to be researching _any_ case, but especially not this one. The fact that Derek isn't a prime suspect has Stiles suspicious. And Stiles knows Derek isn't a prime suspect or he'd have heard about it; Derek wouldn't be allowed near their house or near him. Derek would not be talked about or even mentioned.

How is Derek fooling all these people? How is Derek fooling the _police force?_ A police force, Stiles would like to point out, that is fronted by his freakin' _dad_. 

Nothing is adding up and Stiles's time is running out. The next full moon is in just over two weeks meaning that the next _murder_ is in just over two weeks… if Derek can wait that long. Stiles knows he didn't last time, the face of the terrified blonde of July running through his head. Two weeks until a definite murder. If there's an impulsive murder between now and then is anyone's guess. Stiles doesn't want to think about it.

It's just past half-way into Stiles's research week that things get worse, much worse than Stiles could have ever thought.

" _You lost your phone?!_ " Stiles asks disbelievingly on Thursday, exactly two weeks before August's first full moon, until Derek's next rage spike.

"No, I didn't _lose_ it. I dropped it. In Derek's _car_. I know exactly where it is, and THAT IS THE PROBLEM!" Scott shouts through the receiver. Stiles can imagine him pulling at his hair in panic, sitting despairingly on the edge of his bed.

"How are you only just realising this _now?_ Don't you need your phone to contact Deaton? To contact your mom, contact _Allison?!_ " Stiles eyes can't focus on anything, his brain working overdrive to figure out the solution to such a massive problem. They're dead, they're _so_ dead.

"Isaac's been filling in for me this week; I wanted at least a week off in the summer and I haven't needed to contact Allison or my mom. They've both known where I've been - at _Allison's!_ " Scott yells, and Stiles can picture him rocking back and forth on his bedroom floor, awaiting death by Derek's hands.

"No, this is not happening. Dude, I sent you _confidential_ texts this week. Texts about _Derek_. Derek cannot see those texts." Stiles states firmly, already up and moving about his room, collecting his binoculars, silver knife and walkie-talkie.

"I broke into his car, Stiles. IF HE FINDS MY PHONE HE KNOWS I BROKE INTO HIS CAR, INTO HIS SIXTY THOUSAND DOLLAR CAR!" Scott is virtually inconsolable at this point so Stiles ignores him as he shouts into his ear, instead wracking his brain once more for a solution that doesn't involve breaking the law, the law that his dad _enforces_. He can't think of anything.

"Scott, shut up for a second." He commands, and is surprised when Scott obeys him immediately. Maybe he was waiting for Stiles to come up with a plan, like always. Stiles wants to roll his eyes but can't muster up the appropriate sarcasm because, really, what else was Scott going to do? Grab his phone from Derek's car with no complications? _Please_ -

Sometimes Stiles wishes he were more wary of the law. But when the law is his dad, he finds it hard to feel the right amount of fear.

"You've still got his garage controls, right? We never actually had the chance to go into his house, so maybe-"

"Stiles, if I go in there again, my heart won't be able to take it. Do you want me to die of a heart attack at the age of eighteen? _Do you?_ " Scott's use of rhetoric is pretty new but given the circumstances, Stiles will forgive the sass.

"Do you want to die at the hands of a serial killer, instead?" Before Scott has a chance to answer, Stiles speaks again, "Think about it, Scott. According to you, you're screwed either way. Do you want to go naturally or by force, man?" Stiles can't believe that this is how he's convincing Scott to do his dirty work. There's a pause on the other end of the phone. "I'd go in there for you, man, you know I would, but there's the small issue of this device around my ankle that _alerts the cops_ whenever I so much as _breathe_ anywhere other than on Stilinski land."

"Yeah," Scott exhales shakily, "Yeah, okay, I get it, but _Jesus_ , this is not how I imagined my week off during the summer going."

"It's a whole lot more exciting, though, right?" Stiles grins, because he thrives in chaos, even if it's life-threatening.

"You could say that." Scott answers, laughing in disbelief. Stiles's job is done.

"Alright, come over and we'll concoct a plan." Stiles says in all seriousness, still not quite believing he's going _into_ the metaphorical lion's den.

When Scott arrives twenty minutes later, because Beacon Hills is about an hour's drive in diameter, Stiles has a plan formed and ready to go. He just hopes Derek doesn't stay home tonight. It's unlikely, considering Thursday nights are conveniently Derek's _I-refuse-to-come-home-until-4-in-the-morning_ nights.

Stiles spends the next three hours drilling into Scott the importance of subterfuge and stealth, as well as the significance of what they're about to do. If Scott can get his phone back unscathed, there's a chance they might catch a glimpse of something. Hopefully, for Stiles, more evidence in the case he's slowly building against Derek. He's not hoping for case-cracking evidence; maybe some very incriminating blood splatters or the victims' personal items, if he's extremely lucky. Just _something_ , because Stiles is running out of momentum and out of options, fast.

Finally, at around seven o'clock, Derek leaves. Stiles hopes, hopes to all hell that he doesn't take his car, but to no avail.

"Damn it," Stiles growls as Derek reverses out of his driveway, brakes squealing. He turns around to see Scott's paling face and nervous hand twitches. The scattered remains of their stake-out feast crinkle under Stiles's feet as he crosses his room to grab his laptop. Transferring all his remaining video onto his laptop, syncing the two devices together to create a live feed and promptly disconnecting his camcorder, Stiles grabs the camera and shoves it into Scott's limp hands, making sure his best friend has a firm hold before letting go completely.

"We're still going in there." He can sense Scott's protests before he can hear them and continues in anticipation, "This is our only chance, Scott. _Our only chance_. There's a five hour gap between now and the earliest possible time he'll be back. We're going in and we're finding that _fucking_ blue bag. There's a body in there and we arefucking _discovering_ it, God damn it!" He slams his hand down on his desk, breathing heavily in anger. He has had enough. Derek needs to be charged and _now_. Stiles doesn't know what he'll do if another disappearance shows up on the news.

There's silence until Scott's meek reply resonates throughout the room.

"Okay," He sighs, "Alright, I'll go."

Stiles exhales noisily, spirits rising, determined to have something by the end of the night. Scott gets up from Stiles's desk chair situated in the center of the room and clutches the camcorder tightly in his left hand, the other thrusting into his right pocket and clutching what are, no doubt, Derek's garage controls.

"Stay here." Scott orders. Stiles nods and Scott leaves his bedroom with a stubborn look on his face. Grabbing his laptop and snatching the binoculars from his bedside table, Stiles stalks over to his right-side window, the one with the perfect view of the Hale house and its adjacent garage. From the corner of his eye he sees his best friend walk hastily across his front yard and jump over the fence dividing the Stilinski property from the Hale property. Stiles takes a second to despair over the fact he has taught Scott nothing in the art of stealth. He initiates the camcorder to laptop feed, opening his Macbook to see Scott's hurried and rather jerky path towards the Hale garage.

He flips open his phone - because he's still stuck in the early noughties -  and dials Scott, pressing his cell to his ear eagerly.

Scott is crouched low to the ground on Stiles's side of the garage, in plain sight of anyone who is walking toward the Hale house from the left. Stiles thanks whoever is watching over him for the fact his street is basically deserted after six o'clock on weeknights, because it seems everyone works the typical nine to five. Everyone except Derek, that is.

"Should I open it?" Scott asks hesitantly, looking up and down the street frantically for any witnesses.

"Go, go, go." Stiles urges because the coast is clear and they've got to seize the moment. His heart is beating out a steady rhythm that matches his excitement, and Stiles can feel the blood pumping through his veins. His hands are unusually still and measured for someone with ADHD, he realises, as the adrenalin starts to take over. 

The garage door lifts slowly, groaning in protest like a teenager awoken from a deep sleep. Stiles can relate.

Scott stops the door a third of the way up, sinking low enough to the ground to roll underneath it in relative silence and grace. They're in.

Scott is breathing heavily, the panic clear in his stilted speech and fumbling hands. Stiles can hear the phone drop several times before Scott recovers enough to continue. Stiles can only hope Scott holds out long enough. He has his inhaler if anything goes seriously wrong. Unfortunately, Scott is not the most ideal person for the job. Stiles would be most ideal, of course, with his constantly running mouth and ability to joke his way out of freaking World War III; Allison would probably be the second most ideal given her relative calmness under pressure and general badassery (although both of them had agreed to not involve her in their current plan); Scott, however, would be the person considered _after_ the last resort with his panic, asthma, and such a high degree of clumsiness that he could take down an elephant effortlessly.

Stiles sighs. He's got to work with the hand he's been dealt.

"Alright, we're looking for blue, anything blue, but mostly that blue bag." Stiles reminds him, sitting as still as a statue in his room for fear of racketing the tension up another notch. "Maybe something red, too." Stiles adds tentatively.

"I can barely see anything!" hisses Scott, and the feed on his computer shows a blur of blacks and greys. "Hold on, I'm gonna use my flashlight app." There's a lag of about five seconds in which there is still nothing but black on Stiles's screen when all of a sudden the inside of the empty garage is illuminated and Stiles can see it clearly. Although, he's surprised Derek uses it as a garage at all. In fact, it looks more like a work room - a carpenter's dream given the tool sets aligning the walls and plethora of wood in different shapes, sizes and types. He shudders at the thought of what Derek would use this room for. The glint of a saw makes Stiles close his eyes to rid the image of the last blonde woman he'd seen in Derek's company, petrified beyond belief. 

"Dude." Scott intones incredulously. " _Dude._ "

Stiles opens his eyes to the feed focusing on one of the work benches by the door that leads to the rest of the Hale house.

"What?" Although Scott can't hear him unless he's got Stiles on speaker. Why hadn't they thought to bring an _actual_ flashlight?

Scott must move the camcorder closer to the bench because suddenly Stiles is staring at Scott's phone, perfectly intact, like it's been removed from Derek's car and placed upon the bench for further inspection. Scott's breathing begins to hitch once more.

"He found my phone. He _found_ my _fucking_ phone, Stiles. God, what the _fuck?!_ " Scott screeches, and Stiles shushes him as best he can given he's pretty sure he's on speakerphone which is not helpful to their situation at all because they need to be _quiet_.

"Grab it and look for the blue bag." Stiles orders, adamant on finding their evidence, getting Scott the hell out of there and charging Derek once and for all.

"Fuck that, man, I am out. I am done. I hate you, I _hate_ you for making me do this- oh, fuck-" There's a loud clatter, some frenzied rustling, and an instant silence that spells nothing good.

" _Oh, jeez._ " Scott breathes out. He sounds heartbroken, like he just discovered what he knew all along but never wanted to believe. Stiles waits nervously, not sure he wants to hear what Scott has to say.

" _Stiles-_ " his voice cracks, and now Scott is whispering hoarsely, "-there's blood. There's blood on the blue bag I just tripped over. I don't want to open it."

This is it, this is their breakthrough. Stiles almost can't believe it. He's grossed out and saddened but this is fantastic.

"Please don't make me open it." Scott whimpers. He's about to reply, to placate his best friend, let him leave and they can go tell the Sheriff together, but he hears something, a car slowly turning into the Hale drive-

"Scott, get out of there right now!" Stiles exclaims, watching his feed anxiously for Scott's retreat, eyes snapping to Derek's Camaro that is pulling in _right at that moment_.

"Stiles-" There are muffled sounds coming from his cell but Stiles is focusing on Derek, emerging from the car and seeing his garage door semi-closed. He looks around suspiciously, head tilted up and nostrils flaring almost as if he's sniffing-

Derek's eyes flick up to his bedroom window. The feed is gone, disconnected already, but Stiles slams his laptop shut and propels himself out of his chair and onto his bed. Childish delusions be damned, he yanks the covers of his unmade bed over his head and is utterly still, cell phone still clutched in hand and breathing much more heavily than he wants to at that moment. Scott is not saying anything on the other end. In fact, there's nothing coming from the other end, and Stiles realises they've been disconnected. Scott is gone and where he is or whether he's safe, Stiles has no idea.

"Fuck." Stiles mutters desperately. He rips the covers back off of himself, hair tousled and clothes askew. He yanks his door open and clambers down the stairs as fast as he can.

"Scott!" He yells, leaving the front door wide open. But he doesn't care, he can't, because Scott could be dying, or dead, and it will be all Stiles's fault-

"SCOTT! SCOTT, _GET OUT HERE!_ " The familiar beeping of his anklet begins, and Stiles doesn't care. In fact, it's exactly what he needs because the cops will come, and Scott will be safe. They'll see Derek's bloody blue bag and they'll arrest him on the spot. He's the Sheriff's kid, he can be trusted, he's not making it up. Stiles hopes.

"SCOTT!" He screams as the blue and red lights flash across the tarmac about five houses down, sirens as loud as if they were right next to his ear. Stiles jumps the fence over to the Hale house, knee connecting with the ground hard as he lands. He limps toward the front door; he needs to find Scott.

"Put your hands behind your head." The voice is cold, unforgiving. Stiles stops, half-way across the newly put down and rather green Hale front lawn. Derek has indeed been doing some gardening. He whips his head around, sees a familiar face, pointing a gun at him.

"No, you don't understand. Scott-"

"I said, _put your hands behind your head!_ " Macy commands again. Stiles reluctantly does as she says, eyes darting to the two police cruisers parked haphazardly in front of the Hale house.

"Macy, please, Scott's in there, you've got to believe me-"

"Down on your knees! _NOW!_ " Macy orders, voice a complete one-eighty to the soft, feminine murmur he's used to, years of hanging around the station causing her to call him 'kiddo'. Things are different now.

Stiles obeys her once more, still pleading.

"He's got Scott!" Macy ignores him, lowering her gun quickly. She walks up to him determinedly and wrestles his arms behind his back to put handcuffs on him. Of all the times Stiles imagined himself in handcuffs, being _actually_ arrested was not one of them.

"He's got Scott, Macy. Derek's got Scott." He's ignored again and can't stop the frustration from seeping into his voice when he speaks once more, "There's a body!" Macy pauses in her abuse of his wrists. He seizes his chance, "There's a body in a blue bag in the garage. Trust me on this. Derek has Scott and there's a body in the garage!" Stiles exclaims, frantically gesturing as best he can to the still slightly ajar garage door, eyes probably a little crazy.

Derek chooses that moment to casually emerge from his front door and look confused, like he doesn't know what's happened. Stiles wants to punch him in the face, make his Chemistry teacher Harris look like an accident.

"I'm sorry, sir," says Deputy Roth, the newest Deputy to the Beacon Hills Police Department, who had been surveying the situation with a ready gun. Stiles has known him for about three months, now. He's the one assigned to Stiles's case, the one delegated to reign Stiles in when he goes astray, when he walks out of the 100 yard perimeter that centers on the anklet scanner in his kitchen.

"Mr. Stilinski here believes-" Roth pauses, like he can't quite compute that he's going on the word of an eighteen year old convicted delinquent who barely scraped past a juvie sentence, "He believes there's a body in your garage, sir. In a blue bag."

Derek looks at them all evenly from his porch.

"With blood stains." Stiles adds stubbornly, glaring at Derek until he proceeds to slowly descend the steps onto his own front lawn. Stiles remains kneeled, handcuffed and ready to be taken to the station for what he hopes will be a witness's statement.

"Where's Scott?" Stiles demands. Macy pushes his head down forcefully as a warning to shut up. His neck stings when he lifts his head up again and he doesn't bother speaking anymore.

"He also says you have his friend, Scott McCall." Macy continues for Roth, much less sceptical of what she's implying and a lot more professional. Stiles has always liked Macy.

Derek frowns, seemingly innocent and horribly bewildered.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding." He starts, ready to lie and lie and Stiles grits his teeth. Despite his previous thoughts and actions, there is nothing attractive about Derek Hale in this moment. Stiles finds him repulsive, absolutely disgusting, and he doesn't want to glimpse any part of Derek Hale ever again if he can help it.

"If you don't mind, Derek," Macy begins politely. The use of a first name stops Stiles short for a second before he realises she probably questioned him about Laura's death, is probably on his sister's case, "We'd like to check the garage." Derek's eyes flash with emotion, Stiles is guessing frustration, too quick for anyone to notice unless they're looking for it. Stiles narrows his eyes in suspicion.

"Of course," Derek intones quietly, the first to move towards the garage. He slips underneath, and the door abruptly jerks before it begins to open further. Stiles is left on the front lawn with a limited view of the proceedings whilst Deputy Roth and Macy move closer to the scene. Derek drags out the blue bag Stiles saw that first night, now a little more battered and a lot more bloody, onto the driveway, and unties the knot that holds the bag closed. Ten feet away, he can't see inside but he hears the sharp intake of Macy as she views the bag's contents. Deputy Roth looks sick, and Stiles feels hope burst bright and sharp in his chest, travelling up until it's in his throat, ready to be released in a series of outrageous swear words and joyous proclamations. Macy, face now hardened, quickly stalks over to Stiles and roughly grasps his upper arm. She pulls him, stumbling, toward the blue bag. He's close now, close enough to see the edge of what's inside, to peek maybe a hand or a foot-

It's a head.

"Oh, God." Stiles's hope, bright and sharp just twenty seconds ago but now heavy and unpleasant, bursts forth once again out of his chest, up his throat and onto the ground beside the bag in the form of his makeshift dinner of three hours ago. Vomit.

It's not the head of a woman, nor a man… but a wolf. It's not even the head, but the torso. The wolf is relatively intact save for some limited decay and the fact that it's been cut in half by something. Human or animal, it seems none of them can determine. But it lies in two pieces in the bag, the head and shoulders on top and the most visible.

"I found it by the side of the road near the creek on the east side of town." Derek explains, voice almost a whisper but still loud given the complete silence of the other three people in the vicinity. The blue and red from the police cruisers cast his face in unnatural light, making him look sallow and sickly, like he doesn't like what he's seeing either. Stiles gulps down the urge to vomit again.

"I was going to dispose of it humanely, near the forest. But I hadn't found the time. I only discovered it a week ago." Has it really been only a week? Stiles feels like it's been months, years, freaking _decades_. His shoulders fall in defeat. This is it, it's done. No matter how intriguing Derek is, how mysterious or suspicious, no one is going to believe him. He's the boy who cried wolf. Literally. His reliability is shot. Stiles can do nothing.

He's escorted to Macy's police cruiser by Roth. Macy is apologising profusely to Derek, claiming cabin fever and grief and Stiles doesn't want to hear it, squeezes his eyes shut so tight his temples ache with the pressure. His forehead is pressed up against the glass of the car window, and he stares at the Hale house, burnt and decrepit, a shell of its former glory as one of the most desired estates in Beacon Hills. Stiles stares until his eyes dry out and then he's staring at the back of the passenger seat in front of him. Macy drops into the driver's seat heavily, heaving an exhausted sigh after she shuts the driver-side door. Neither of them say anything for a few moments until Stiles readjusts the cuffs that are digging into his wrists and the chink of metal breaks the ice.

"I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing _to_ say." Stiles replies almost instantly. Macy sighs again, and Stiles wonders how he came to be such a cause of distress and fatigue.

"I think I'm going to leave this one to your dad, kiddo."

She puts the car into reverse and pulls out, quickly shutting off the cruiser's police lights. They take the five minute drive to the station, not even Macy's police radio disrupting the tense silence that's descended upon them.

~~~

The scene that follows is sadly reminiscent of the tired lectures Stiles received after he punched Harris and after his sentencing in December. But what's different this time is that Stiles's actions are justified. He has evidence, he has reason. It's just a shame it's all come down to he-said, he-said.

"I thought things were getting better, Stiles!" John doesn't bother to ask, just exclaims exasperatedly. "I thought breaking the law, at least so obviously, was in the past!" His dad rakes a scarred hand through his short hair, sitting down at the kitchen table in a way that exudes defeat.

"This isn't some silly attention-seeking behaviour, Dad." Stiles tries to explain, pleading with his eyes and remaining standing in spite of the way his dad struggles to lift his gaze to him, whether because of plain exhaustion or just disappointment.

"I'm serious." He frowns, knowing his train of thought sounds a lot creepier and less sane when he says it out loud, "I've been watching him, and wha-"

"Watching him?" John finds the strength to stare up at Stiles in disbelief, "You've been watching him?!" His voice is almost a roar as he stands from the chair, his two inches over Stiles now feeling like two feet. "There are laws against that for a reason, Stiles!" John grits out through his teeth, "Christ, it's a wonder he hasn't pressed charges yet."

Stiles cringes, hoping desperately the Sheriff won't notice his nervous hand-wringing and the way he carefully averts his eyes.

It's silent.

"He hasn't, has he?" John speaks with a tone that promises the worst punishment Stiles will ever receive in his life if it's true.

"Well, that's a complicated question-"

" _Stiles._ "

"He, sort of, _might have_ , in a _really_ nice but very, _extremely_ suspicious way, told me to give him his privacy."

"And, let me guess," John raises his eyebrows sceptically, "You didn't listen?"

Stiles gestures wildly, almost knocking over a chair with his passionate display.

"It's not that we didn't listen, exactly! More that we chose to ignore him and continued to observe him in a very _non-intrusive_ way, I would like to point out."

" _We?_ " John asks dangerously.

"Err- .. well, Scott and myself, obviously-"

"And where Scott goes, Allison follows." His dad sighs, weary once more. Stiles wonders whether he'll sleep for a week once this is all over. "Stiles, what the hell? You had to involve your _friends?_ "

"They couldn't deny it, Dad. Once they saw my footage-"

John's eyes widen. 

" _Footage?_ " Stiles opens his mouth to reply, "No, don't even try. I think I've heard enough. You're going to hand over all of this _footage_ to me immediately, and all the equipment you've been using. Then, you're going to tell your friends to forget everything that's happened, and all three of you are going to leave Derek alone."

Stiles doesn't want to say anything more for fear of giving away the fact he has borrowed ( _stolen_ ) police equipment on his bedside table, and that he has an infinite amount of information that supports his theory that Derek is a murdering werewolf. Oh, not to mention the case files that are spread out all over his desk. Stiles gulps, thanks whatever deity is watching over him that his Dad hasn't been home enough recently to even bother entering Stiles's room (or, as John calls it, his 'bomb site').

"Alright, that sounds good. Yep, totally doable, that is a _for sure_ done thing, Daddy-o."

John eyes him for a few seconds before seemingly giving up and sitting himself down again at the kitchen table. Stiles twitches anxiously. He totally forgot about Scott and now he's going to have to rescue him without setting his anklet off and alerting the police, namely his _dad_ , about his further law-breaking activities.

"Okay, well, if that's all-" John shoots him a look, "- _for now_ , then I guess I'll go upstairs and get that footage and surrender up anything and everything to you, then, y'know, hit the hay, turn in, go to sleep, yeah?" Stiles takes a breath, ignoring his dad's pursed lips, and nodding to himself.

He ascends the stairs as quietly and as calmly as possible so that he doesn't alert his dad to his panic, only just catching his bedroom door as he enters before it slams.

"Fuhhhhh-ck." Stiles draws it out, long and distressed, as he feels everything hit him full force; the magnitude of what just happened, what he has ahead of him. Plunging his hand into his pocket, he grasps his cell phone tightly and makes a call.

"Come on," He urges, "Pick up, you moron."

As the dial tone resounds in his ear, Stiles hears something, something very familiar.

" _Let's have some fun, this beat is sick,_ " The low melody is close, close enough to be in his very room. Stiles makes a 360 degree turn, looking around frantically.

" _I wanna take a ride on your disco stick,_ "

In a way, the ringtone is not surprising at all; Scott is pretty lovesick at the moment, but of all the things to show that, his _ringtone_? Allison listens to Lady Gaga, and so does Scott now, apparently.

Stiles grabs the handle of his closet, whipping it open and discovering Scott, mouth open and hair all over the place, asleep.

He promptly kicks him in the shins.

"What the- ow! _Ow!_ Stiles, what gives?" Scott whines, rubbing his shins and and blinking sleepily.

"What gives?" Stiles almost screeches, "What _gives?_ Scott McCall, you absolute moron, I thought you were freakin' _dead!_ " Stiles shoves Scott back onto the ground as he tries to get up in agitation.

"Hey!" Scott protests and adjusts himself to stand a second time. Stiles glares at him fiercely, rationally annoyed and pretty damn angry.

"Okay, well, maybe I shouldn't have fallen asleep," Scott admits, looking back into the closet in thought, right hand clutching his hair with slight helplessness, "But man, you took ages. What happened?"

"Oh, you know," Stiles turns around and collapses onto his bed laboriously, "Just got arrested, taken to the station and questioned, and then finally released after two hours of being berated by the whole of the Beacon Hills Police Department."

Scott gapes at him.

"But there was a body in the bag, right? I mean, they charged Derek?" Scott searches his face and what he seems to find there is answer enough.

"He got _away?_ But, he killed that girl! We have evidence!" His best friend frowns and Stiles just wants to console him, he's so much like a puppy. It's almost criminal.

"Yeah, and I was stupid enough to think evidence obtained _illegally_ by the Sheriff's bored son would go down well. It didn't." He huffs out a breath, lost. "Now everyone thinks Derek is some poor, wronged mystery and that I'm a stir-crazy, cabin fever-affected delinquent with another petty crime on his record."

Scott lands on the side of Stiles's bed, looking out the window across the room thoughtfully, a puzzled frown on his face.

"I think my dad might have lost his job." Scott's head jerks toward him, eyes widening. "Temporarily, at least."

His sigh is quiet but long, and Stiles doesn't know where to go from here. They're at square one once more, and it's a little over a week until the next full moon.

"What now?" Scott echoes his thoughts, biting his lip worriedly. Stiles takes a moment to breathe deeply before he speaks.

"I guess we wait until Derek fucks up again." Scott nods in a resigned manner.

"It's only a matter of time." Scott confirms, patting Stiles on the back gruffly before explaining he needed to be home an hour ago and his mom is going to be _pissed_.

That night Stiles lies awake in bed, covers strewn wildly around him and hands scrubbing over his face when his eyes start drooping. He can't sleep, not tonight.

Derek knows Stiles suspects him, and Stiles is certain he's next. He's got to spend the coming week avoiding Derek or he might just be in two pieces by August.

Only, Stiles can't leave his house.

Of all the times to discover he's living next to a serial killer, being under house arrest has to be on the very bottom of his list.


End file.
